


i'm with you in the dark

by krystian



Category: Dead Cells (Video Game), Hyper Light Drifter
Genre: Bittersweet, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Closure, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Mute Beheaded (Dead Cells), Nonbinary Guardian (Hyper Light Drifter), Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Temporary Character Death, that would be the beheaded then, the beheaded is an asshole and dumb, the driftguard is only there if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29756709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krystian/pseuds/krystian
Summary: The Drifter prevails, but at what cost?He leaves behind a jumbled mess of a destroyed world and broken people, and the Beheaded wishes nothing more than to just get on with his journey instead of being held up by people who think they recognize a familiar face.
Relationships: The Drifter/The Guardian (Hyper Light Drifter)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	i'm with you in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> i said this would go up next week if my schedule allowed it but little did i know that i'd be put in quarantine which jumbled my entire schedule. guess i'll be staying home some more, then, at least until the results come in.
> 
> also it is apparently possible to save the guardian if you just,, dont talk to them. so let's just say our good ol' drifter didn't talk to them and they survived. 
> 
> in any case, i was inspired by [this little comic](https://rookdaw.tumblr.com/post/177998261440/bonus) by rookdaw which just resonated with me, and it's super cute and i love their art style and it makes me sad :)
> 
> title is taken from Deltarune's [Don't Forget](https://youtu.be/YLeid-bIRQA) and my, uhh, my BGM was [Heaven](https://youtu.be/3fioSlrY-u0) from Persona 4. kinda upset that i used the title "drifting in your absence" for another work already.
> 
> my last work (take that with a grain of salt) for this fandom should go up tomorrow; I'd had been keeping it on hold until i had finished the game, and what can i say. i finished the game.

He wakes up slumped against a wall, fuchsia blood staining his hands.

Or at least the body he’s chosen to inhabit wakes up – the Beheaded has been awake for quite some time now.

It’s somewhat refreshing, having a body and all. Way better than traveling without one, even if it’s a body like… this one. Bloody, battered and broken – most of the person’s insides are maimed, hardly intact and for a second he wonders what happened for them to end up in a place like this. They’re dressed all funny, too.

The cloak weighs heavy atop his shoulders when he gets up to look around and the helmet on his head keeps sliding down and-

Right – the body still has a head. Well, no problem. He can definitely take care of that. 

It’s always kind of messy and a little annoying, especially if you don’t have a mirror but he honestly prefers traveling without a head. Just more comfortable that way, and it’s not like the bodies he possesses are going to mind either way. Or at least he still has to encounter a body that minds it.

When he’s taken care of the problem _(it hadn’t_ really _been a problem, more like a small nuisance, but still)_ he takes a look at his surroundings again, now that his field of vision is better. It’s quite hard to fully take the world around yourself in when all you have is two little eyes with pupils as big as pinpricks. His hands that don’t seem completely human – not that he should be the one to judge what passes as human and what doesn’t – are still blood-stained, perhaps a little more than before, and the double-layered cloak that is draped across his shoulders sways in a breeze that doesn’t really exist. It’s quite peaceful down here, wherever he is.

The Beheaded, now living up to his name again, pats his newly acquired body down, searching for anything that he can use. There’s a holster for a gun at his hip, and he inspects it for a few seconds before deeming it uninteresting, focusing his attention on the sword with the retractable blade instead. It’s sharp, he’ll give it that, just not what he’s used to.

Not that it matters much – a sword is a sword, after all. He tests it out, and it seems to have all the qualities a real sword should possess. Looks well cared for, too. Must be fine, then.

There’s something else as well – a small bot wrapped in grey cloth that has been haphazardly fastened to the belt-like thing around his waist, and when he takes it in his hands, it chirps quietly, soft light illuminating his already glowing head and part of the walls that surround him. It’s cute, in a weird way – like the mushroom bois or serenade, perhaps. Just… smaller. And way more harmless. And not as animated. Actually, the bot is pretty much nothing like the others, now that he thinks about it.

Still, he wraps it back up in the cloth – whoever it had belonged to must have liked it if they’d thought to preserve it like that, protected from the collapse, and he can respect that. Besides, it might come in handy later.

Then he takes in his surroundings once more. Nothing has changed. There’s debris all around him, as if the ceiling had caved in or something. He can’t tell for sure. It’s kind of dark, just a small ray of sunlight piercing the perpetual twilight.

The Beheaded sighs, shrugging to himself. He’s discarded the helmet, left it like an offering near the fuchsia blood splatters on the wall. It doesn’t belong to him, and he doesn’t want it. After that, he leaves these strange ruins, the detritus of what once must have been a sacred place to someone.

He doesn’t look back.

* * *

There are weird boosters on his shoes, he notices after a while of boring old walking. The island had never been this boring. Something always was out to get you there but this… this felt peaceful in a strange, fake way. As if something was slumbering beneath the earth, waiting to break free. Birds are singing, blue flowers are blooming, but there’s something inherently wrong with it. Perhaps because he hadn’t seen natural flora in years. Still seems wrong.

The boosters make the fake tranquillity of this place he doesn’t know somewhat more bearable. He just skids a few feet at first, the body he’s inhabiting still used to the motion. But then he links the dashes, strings them together into fluid movements, zigzagging through the woods until-

Well, until a tree decides to pop up right in front of him. It had been there for a long time, probably, because it’s big, and sturdy and doesn’t budge when he slams into it face first, thrown backwards by the impact.

Groaning when he lands on the soft grass, he rubs the bridge of his non-existent nose with his claw-like fingers. Perhaps taking the helmet with him would have been a better idea. It probably would have offered at least a little protection. He picks himself up, shaking out his legs a little to get rid of the tremors still passing through them before carefully following the path leading through the woods.

They clear not too much later, making way for what seems to be a little town, lively and peaceful, with inhabitants that seem almost harmless. Nothing like the island. Just where the hell is he?

He strolls into the town as if he owns it, ignoring the bewildered stares that the residents send his way, avoiding him as best as they can. It can’t be because of the fuchsia blood because he’d washed that off along the way, so he doesn’t quite know if it’s because of his flaming head or because of the body he’s inhabiting, but he hopes it’s the former. That one is always easier to explain, not that he really wants to explain anything to them. That’s not his job, and besides, he doesn’t even have any explanations. Perhaps it isn’t as easy to explain after all. Doesn’t matter.

Not knowing his way around the small town, the first shop he sets foot in is- well, he doesn’t actually know, that’s the problem. There had been a sign above the entrance, but it’s all hieroglyphs that he can’t read, not even when he squints at them. It looks, however, like a pharmacy, and it smells like one, too, but given from what he’s seen of the laboratories in the sewers and around the castle, it isn’t really one. There are no coiled glass flasks that glow in weird colours, and it’s not as mouldy and gloomy either and there are no failed experiments on people, but he guesses that was to be expected. It’s still somewhat unsettling.

When he goes to wave at the apothecary, they just answer with a curt nod before spreading their arms and showing off what they have in stock. Pretending to be interested, he leans over the counter.

He doesn’t buy anything in the end, mainly because he has no money – or whatever counts as money here. He doesn’t know that, either. He knows pretty much nothing, actually.

Sighing, he steps back onto the street that is not really a street, more like a well-trodden path with a few stone slabs here and there. Eye glued to the ground, he lets it lead him to another shop, one that he is slightly more familiar with, this time.

It’s a weapons shop, he assumes as he steps through the door, eyeing the equipment strewn around the room. Swords and guns and… well, that’s it, really. Which is quite disappointing, to say the least, but then again, who is he to judge.

The scummy looking person behind the counter, hat covering half of their face, whistles when he enters, but they don’t say anything, so he doesn’t, either. Not that he could, even if he wanted to. He’s bending over a display of swords that look nothing like his own when the bell above the door chimes again, alerting them to another customer’s presence.

He doesn’t turn around, even when the newcomer utters a quiet “Drifter?” because what if the merchant is called Drifter? It would be a weird name, sure, but he’s heard weirder names. Like The Collector, which is probably more of a title than an actual name, now that he thinks about it. He _does_ collect Cells after all, so it must be a title. Strange how he never thought about that before.

His thoughts are rudely interrupted when a warm hand is placed on his shoulder, turning him around. Curiously he inspects the other person.

They’re tall, is what he first notices. Tall and dressed in pinks and teals; it does suit them, he will admit that much.

The Beheaded inclines his discorporate head, blinking once. A question.

The person clears their throat under their helmet, their hand gliding off his shoulder. “Oh- excuse me, I must have made a mistake. You’re not him.” But they don’t sound convinced – it’s probable that they had known the body he is inhabiting. Curious. That had never happened before. He’ll have to test that theory.

His eye scrunches up a little when he tugs at their sleeve as they turn away to leave, motioning for them to stay. Then, he makes a flurry of complicated, fast-paced gestures with his hands, hoping that the other person understands.

They click their tongue under their helmet. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” they say after he’s finished, eyes flitting over to the merchant now and then. They don’t seem to trust him. “Perhaps, if you-?” They wave, and a small, pink bot, not unlike the one he’d found earlier, which had been hovering in the air until now, dips slightly, displaying some sort of glowing keyboard.

He snaps his fingers, unfastening the piece of cloth at his waist and unwrapping the bot to present it to the other.

Their breath hitches in their throat, and their hands tremble slightly when they reach out for it, but the Beheaded pulls it back, shaking his head. “That’s- where did you find that?” they ask, scrutinizing him from under their helmet. “Who are you?” Then they send another glance towards the merchant, who had been following their conversation not as subtly, shaking their head. “Not here. Not now. Follow me.”

Turning around on their heel, they leave the shop, hurrying through the town without paying attention to the townies greeting them along the way. The Beheaded waves, slightly forlorn, when a child with a ball stops to gaze at them. The child waves back.

They lead him to a house, too large for one person alone, and invite him into their kitchen, even going as far as pulling up a chair for him and waiting until he’s settled down. He looks around the new environment as they hurry back into the main room, grabbing what seems to be a small tool box, before joining him in the kitchen again, sitting down themselves.

Sighing, again. He inclines his head. The person takes off their helmet, placing it on the table. They look tired.

“Your- the bot, please,” they say, holding out their hand. He hesitates for a second before handing it over, and almost immediately they begin working on it, rewiring and re-smelting with skilled, nimble hands. They seem to know what they’re doing, not looking up from their work as they start talking. “You can call me Guardian,” they say, unprompted, “and I’d like to know who you are, if you don’t mind.”

They wave again, and the keyboard reappears in front of him. He frowns at it. Still hieroglyphs he can’t decipher.

The person expectantly looks at him when he doesn’t answer immediately, and he gestures toward the keyboard, making a x-shape with his arms. “You don’t… oh, you don’t understand. Here, let me-” They fiddle around with the settings, and suddenly the alphabet changes. It still isn’t one he recognizes. He shakes his head again. They cycle through a few until he finally finds one he is familiar with, motioning for the other person to stop. “How curious,” they mumble more to themselves than him, “I thought that language was dead… In any case, my previous question still stands.”

He types out a small message, listening to the soft, dull noise his claws make on the holographic keyboard. _[i’m the beheaded]_

“The Beheaded…” They look up from their hands shortly, light eyes skimming over his features. They wince only slightly when their eyes land on the stump of his neck, where skin meets flame. “Yes, I can see why they might call you that.” There’s something like grief in their voice, as if they waiting for him to say anything else.

_[but you can also call me the prisoner or the fallen one or… no, that’s pretty much it, i think]_

Guardian hums, a soft noise in the back of their throat. “How did you acquire those… clothes. And this bot?” It almost sounds as if they don’t want to know the answer, and their thumb gently strokes over the small, teal bot in their hands. It chirps contentedly, nudging their palm as if it knows them.

He shrugs. _[found it not too far away from here]_

They sigh again. “So it’s true- I had hoped the rumours were false, but…” Their shoulders sag as their voice trails off, and for a few seconds the only noise in the room is the sound of melting metal and soft breathing.

 _[what’s true?]_ he asks, because he’s always been curious.

Guardian clears their throat. “Those are- those are my friend’s clothes you’re wearing. His skin, his bot. But you’re not him.”

 _[oh,]_ the Beheaded says, _[sorry]_

“You didn’t know.” Guardian sighs again. “I just wonder… when you found him, did he- did he look like he was in pain?”

He thinks about it for a moment; he hadn’t really seen Drifter’s face, if that’s the body’s name. Sure, he’d held his head in his hands for a few seconds before giving it a nice kick, but that was about it. He doesn’t even remember his face. So he shrugs. Feels a little guilty. Just a little, though. If he felt guilty about every bad thing he’d done, he would never stop.

They nod knowingly. “I was foolish to believe that he- after all this…” Guardian seems at a loss for words. Their hands shake only ever so slightly.

 _[after what?]_ he asks, propping his arms up on the table and leaning forward a little. _[what happened here?]_

Finishing up the bot in their hand, Guardian releases it, following it with their eyes as it hovers in the air before settling down near the Beheaded as if he is its owner. “Judgement,” they simply say, as if that explains it. “The Immortal Cell. Surely you must have noticed…?”

He shakes his head.

“Who are you exactly, anyway? Or rather, what are you? I don’t think I have ever seen anyone like you.” 

Someone that could possess corpses, they mean. Well, he is quite the anomaly, after all.

The Beheaded shrugs. _[came from the prisoners’ quarters beneath the castle,]_ he says, as if that means anything here. Judging by the way Guardian furrows their brows, it really doesn’t ring any bells. _[you know, on the island]_

Guardian apparently doesn’t know. They just look at him, their head inclined. “Island?” they repeat after him, fingers tapping against the metal table. “What island?”

 _[the island.]_ And how much time had passed, exactly? He had always known that the flow of time itself was convoluted here, its very own fabric wavering. If that is true, then this perhaps might be… If Guardian has come to the same conclusion as him, they don’t show it. _[after the malaise spread-]_

Their brows are still furrowed when they interrupt him with their soft voice. “The Malaise? Could you… elaborate on that?”

He shifts a little on his seat before giving Guardian a hesitant thumbs up. The Malaise is the last thing he wants to talk about right now, but if he has too, well… _[it’s a virus.]_ Should be enough.

Guardian sighs. “Anything more specific than that? Where it came from, perhaps, or what its symptoms are?”

 _[dunno where it came from. no one really did.]_ He never liked thinking about the Malaise – whatever the Collector might have said about him, he did have some empathy left. Not much, but something, surely. _[now about the symptoms…]_ He raises one hand to his face, counting his fingers as he lists what he knows, which isn’t much. _[uhhh… vomiting blood, headaches, blurry vision, feeling down. can lead to death. will lead to death]_

Their hands are clasped together, resting on the table. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it looked like a prayer – but there’s a certain kind of hopelessness in their eyes that he can’t quite fathom, and neither does he really want to. “The Malaise, then… might it be that- no, surely not. Forget I said anything.” They shake their head as if trying to get rid of the thoughts inside their head. The Beheaded notices that they somewhat avoid looking at him, only stealing glances in his direction when they think he isn’t looking. “Did you ever find a cure? You must have, if you’re here today.”

He thinks about it for a few seconds. _[a sort of panacea?]_

“Precisely.”

 _[we did, but it’s long gone now, as is its creator.]_ There is no pity to be found in his words. The Collector kind of had been an asshole to him, and perhaps he’s still bitter about that.

“What happened?” Guardian is asking a lot of questions, none of which he really wants to answer. The King, perhaps, would have had them executed a long time ago for asking too many questions. He decides not to bring it up.

_[i killed him]_

“Why?”

He doesn’t really have an answer for that. It _felt_ right at the time, and isn’t that what counts in the end?

Judging by Guardian’s gaze _(and name)_ it probably isn’t. He begins typing, to explain himself, his actions, even though he doesn’t need to because he doesn’t owe them anything, when the front door slides open and the sound of footsteps find their way into the kitchen.

Turning around in his seat, he scans the newcomer, waving a little. Always best to make a good first impression after all.

The wolf-like creature, however, doesn’t even look at him. Her voice is clearly female when she addresses Guardian, leaning against the wall next to the door. “So they weren’t lying. He’s back.”

Guardian sighs, getting up from their chair to prepare a pot of what seems to be tea. Probably to keep their hands busy. They’re shaking again. “It’s not him,” they simply say, in lieu of an actual explanation. “I thought so, too, at first, but-” they vaguely gesture around with their free hand.

He waves again and this time, the wolf woman looks at him. “So what are you doing with his body, then?” It’s hard to tell, but he thinks that she’s narrowing her eyes.

He shrugs, gratefully accepting the warm mug that Guardian presses into his hands after an uncomfortably long period of silence. Instead of sitting down again, however, Guardian keeps standing, looking out the window. It’s a nice day. He hadn’t seen many of those, lately.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.” She pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “What the hell did you do?”

“Don’t, Alt,” Guardian says, placating, “he’s our guest.”

The woman named Alt clicks her tongue. “So? There’s still something in his possession that he shouldn’t have. Something he should give back.” Yep, she’s glaring at him now.

“And then what?” Guardian says, placing their mug on the nearby counter and burying their head in their hands. “It’s not going to bring him back. He’s gone.”

“We don’t know that!” Alt argues back, raising her voice. The Beheaded hasn’t known her that long, but she already reminds him of the island’s denizens. Loud and contentious. “We don’t know if all of him is gone or if there’s something left. Are you really giving up that easily, after all this time?”

Guardian runs their hand across their face before standing up straight. “Sometimes it’s best to let the past rest in peace. Drifter gave his life so we could persist, and perhaps it’s best not to dig around too much. Who knows what else slumbers beneath our feet.”

She laughs, condescending and a little bitter. “You’re just scared, even though this time there is no body to find. You know why?” Alt exaggeratedly points at the Beheaded whose eye keeps flitting between the two of them as if they’re watching an arrow bouncing off the wall again and again. “Because the body is right here!”

“That’s enough, Alt.” Guardian steps away from the window, placing their full cup into the sink. They don’t say anything after that, leaving with head lowered as if they’re ashamed.

Clicking her tongue, she drops down onto the chair Guardian had been sitting on earlier. “Listen, I don’t know who you are. I don’t care, either. But what I care about is learning the truth, you get me?” She waits until he nods, although not energetically. He isn’t ready to give up this body just yet; good bodies are hard to come by nowadays, and this one is truly splendid. “We never talked much, he and I. But he means something to Guardian, and even though they’re moping right now, saying they don’t want to know what happened, getting closure is better. So you’ll help me reach the Immortal Cell one last time, understood?”

It’s not really a question, so he just nods again. _[what’s in it for me?]_

She laughs, throwing her head back. “Feisty. You’re lucky if I don’t kill you.”

That’s good enough for him. He gives Alt a thumbs up, nodding all the while.

“Then come on,” she says, smoothing out her cloak as she stands up again. She’s always afoot, it seems. Well, he can certainly relate to that. A rolling stone gathers no moss, and he’ll be damned if he isn’t the stone that rolls the fastest. “It’s not far.”

She leads him out of the house and past the centre of the little town. The townies automatically make way for her when she comes along, so all he really has to do is follow her lead. She doesn’t have the kind of respect that Guardian has – it’s more like they’re scared of her. Scared of him, too, perhaps. “There used to be an entrance here but it’s long gone now,” she notes when they push past a glowing, diamond-shaped sign on the ground. “We’re lucky that there’s another entrance further south.”

He doesn’t even bother to nod – it’s not like she’s looking at him. Silently, he flips her off. Just for good measure.

She flips him off right back. Quite the temper, this one.

Then she starts dashing.

* * *

The southern area is barren; it’s not the one he’d come from, he would surely remember the charred grass and the bones lying around. Surely. He trails behind her, taking in the area as best as he can _(just in case she decides to abandon him here later on)_ when she speaks up again, still not turning around. “I heard the records of your talk with Guardian. And they might trust you, but I know that there’s something you’re not telling us.”

He shrugs. The grass looks soft albeit dry, despite the soft rain pattering on the ground. Kind of makes him want to take off his shoes.

“People like you don’t just appear out of nowhere. You don’t belong here, do you?”

That’s probably right. He shrugs again.

“So what is it that-” she finishes her sentence with a curse that he’d be damned to repeat, and the flames that surround the stump of the neck flicker slightly when a bot he hadn’t noticed before zips by, finishing the enemy in front of them off with a small projectile. “When did they…?”

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence this time, either, as another small, green creature _(a goblin? looks like a goblin)_ with a gun charges at them. Alt simply steps out of its way, watching as the Beheaded bends backwards when the bullet comes dangerously close to his chest, toppling over in the end. She kills the green thing with a wave of her hand, staring down at him as he brushes himself off. Dust is sticking to his clothes. “How did you even survive the way into town?”

Huffing indignantly, he gets up on his own. Not like he needs her help, anyway. It would have been nice if she had lent him a hand, of course, but he doesn’t _really_ need it.

When he gets up, however, the entire area is a lot greener than before. A lot livelier, too.

Oh. They’re surrounded. Makes sense, then.

Alt breathes out through clenched teeth, shaking her head. “Well, I suppose you get to show me how you survived the way into town. I hope you know how to fight.”

He shrugs, drawing his sword. Its hardlight blade glints in what he assumes to be the afternoon sun. Fighting isn’t hard. It’s really just a lot of knowing where you have to be at what point in time and when you should swing your sword this or that way. And dodging. Can’t forget dodging.

The body, however, also makes or breaks the battle.

And this one isn’t nearly as sturdy as the last one he’d had.

After dodging the first few bullets the green things shoot at him and even killing a few on his own _(after Alt had injured them badly enough that they ran away just at the sight of him)_ , he takes cover behind what seems to be a dead tree, listening to the sounds of his beeping bot and the ongoing battle between Alt and the things she calls _Dirks_ for whatever reason. They don’t look like Dirks. Not that he knows what a Dirk should look like, really. What is it that makes a Dirk a Dirk?

Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice the Dirk _(no, really, who had chosen that name for them?)_ with the rocket launcher sneaking up to him until it’s too late. Way too late. Well, it’s not like he can’t come back.

Resigned to his fate, he closes his eye, waiting for the inevitable.

A second passes.

Another second.

He opens his eye. Sees nothing but pink. Pink fabric and white fur.

That would be Guardian, then. Shielding him. Or not him. The body. Their red sword is stuck in the Dirk’s corpse until they pull it out in one swift motion, turning around to face the Beheaded. “Are you alright?” they ask, and he can only nod.

Alt appears next to them, snorting before she leans against the tree. There’s blood on her hands, but it’s not hers. “I thought you didn’t want to come?”

“I changed my mind.” They turn the hardlight blade off, sheathing the hilt of their sword. “If I can’t stop you from going, then I might as well make sure that you both survive.”

Well, looks like he isn’t going to die this time, then!

He jumps up from his crouching position, arms and legs stretched in what must be a weird display of emotion for the body he’s inhabiting if their staring is anything to go by, when the pain in his side suddenly multiplies and he doubles over, wheezing. His lungs burn.

“Oops,” Alt says, unapologetically. Her bot is still making soft whirring noises.

His hand pressed against his abdomen comes away slick with fuchsia blood, and Guardian takes a step towards him at the sight, finger reaching out before recoiling, as if they can’t stand the implications. And then he’s dropping to his knees, dust trailing down around him when he collapses, flames colliding with the ground as he’s thrown out of his host, skidding a few feet on the ground.

It only takes him a few seconds to re-enter the now lifeless body, but it’s enough. The green mass leaves trails of burnt grass on the ground as he crawls back into his host, hands braced on the ground.

Alt and Guardian stare at him, disbelieving, perhaps even a little horrified, as one might stare at Conjunctivius. He's pretty sure he doesn't look _that_ bad, however. They're just being rude.

“The Jackal?” Guardian whispers to Alt. “Or perhaps the working of the Immortal Cell?”

“That can’t be… a revenant, maybe?” But Alt doesn’t seem sure. “But he’s way too… I mean, a revenant surely would…”

He brushes himself off while they quietly argue among themselves, smoothing out the wrinkles in his cape and then checking his equipment which he thankfully kept this time. And there’s only a small hole left in his chest. Seems like he’ll be able to keep using this body. That’s certainly a relief.

Alt is glaring at him when he looks up, unmasked distrust in her wolfish eyes. “How did you do that?” she asks. It’s not really a question if she is demanding an answer, now is it?

He shrugs, evading her as she grabs for him. She seems surprised, stumbling past him as her hand falls limply to her side.

“You- his entire _head_ is gone. Did you do that?”

He raises his hands in the universal gesture of _Well, what can you do?,_ focusing on Guardian instead. Guardian, who looks like they’d rather be anywhere else. _[been like this for as long as i can remember. didn’t get to choose]_

“If-” Guardian starts before clearing their throat- “if you are… truly immortal, in any sense of the word’s meaning, then is there… is there a way to bring him back?”

_[no.]_

Their shoulders sag. “I see.”

Alt chirrups again, flashing her sharp teeth as if to intimidate him, which seems a little silly after she just killed him. “There’s no way for you to be immortal. Not after the Cell’s been destroyed. Wasn’t that what you guys worked towards? Wasn’t that the entire goal?”

“A mistake, perhaps,” Guardian answers her, their voice tight, “a mistake must have happened along the way. An overseen module. A part of Judgement that survived. I don’t know.”

_Judgement._

He’s heard that name before, once, right at the start. And it is a rather interesting name.

 _[judgement?]_ he asks, but neither of them are paying attention to him. _[what’s judgement?]_

No answer. They’re still arguing, acting as if he isn’t there. He shakes his head, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Ridiculous.

“What if he came from below?” Guardian whispers to Alt, turning their head towards the Beheaded. “If what was down there was anything like the labs in the south, he might have. How would we know?”

Alt sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth. “But it was completely destroyed. And besides, he said he came from an island, didn’t he?” Her face falls ever so slightly, as if something has dawned on her. “Right… there could have been… no, that can’t be it. We’re missing something.” She shakes her head before turning towards him as well, pointing at him with sharp claws. “You there. Beheaded or whatever you call yourself.” There’s distrust in her voice, icy cold. “The island, what was it like?”

_[was an island. what’s there to say? all islands are the same]_

Well, that obviously had been the wrong thing to say. Alt is gone in instant, rematerializing in front of him in the blink of an eye, her hand fisted in the fabric of his cloak. “How about you stop joking around, jester, and come out with the truth?”

Raising his hands in mock-defeat, he huffs indignantly. _[alright, alright. i’ll tell you what i know. not that it’s much]_

“Then start talking already,” she hisses, pushing him back lightly. “And don’t skip anything important.”

He lets himself drop onto the ground, sitting cross-legged, and plucks out clumps of dead grass. Alt is still standing, looking down at him, but Guardian joins him after a few seconds, tucking their legs underneath their body. They fiddle with the gun in their hands. Skilled, nimble hands, and calloused fingers.

He sighs. _[the island, the kingdom, whatever you wanna call it. it’s not… not related to this place at all. i would know. i had most of it built, after all. i’d recognize its architectonics]_

“So your island and our world are two separate things?”

If not separated by space, then at least separated by time.

Nodding, he draws little patterns in the cracked ground, sand accumulating beneath his fingernails. The others are wearing gloves. Lucky them. _[i woke up in the prisoners’ quarters. kept waking up there, every time i died. a cycle that repeated itself, over and over. a time loop that shouldn’t exist here]_

Alt hums, leaning against a nearby tree. She’s always leaning against stuff. “What changed?”

 _[got farther every time. killed the hand of the king and the king and the collector in the hopes that it’d change anything. it didn’t.]_ He doesn’t know how often he repeated the cycle – it had been hard to keep track, after the first ten times or so. In the end, he’d doomed his entire kingdom. Well, doesn’t mean he can’t start over. _[are you perhaps in need of a king?]_

Guardian and Alt look at him weirdly before Guardian chuckles quietly and Alt scrunches up her nose. “Definitely not. And even if, certainly not someone like you. Anyway, don’t distract from the matter at hand. So nothing ever changed, no matter how often you killed those that were responsible for the… for what, exactly?”

_[the malaise. or the way they handled the malaise]_

“The sickness that spread across the island?”

He nods.

“But if you got rid of them, why did nothing change?”

Now that’s the interesting part, isn’t it? He squirms a little in his skin, tugging at the scarf-like thing around his neck. _[probably because i didn’t cut the snake’s metaphorical head off]_

She hums again. Narrows her eyes until her pupils are nothing but pink pinpricks. “And who would that have been?”

_[…me?]_

“So it was,” she says, ignoring his coughing and spluttering and lifting one foot to prop it up against the tree trunk. “Why shouldn’t we just get rid of you?

 _[don’t think your big friend here would like that,]_ he says, pointing at Guardian who looks positively uncomfortable. _[both of you seem rather attached to this body]_

Alt clicks her tongue, shifting on her feet. One of her hands comes up to rub at her temples. “Fine. Let’s just get going. The sooner we reach the Cell, the sooner we can get rid of you.”

_[why are you even taking me with you?]_

She looks at him in a way that reminds him of the Time Keeper; the kind of look only those possess who believe that they can change what has already happened. It’s foolish, and it ends badly more often than not.

_[what are we going to do once we find it?]_

“There is no _we_ ,” Alt sighs. “Best case scenario is that we find out what happened. Say goodbye, one last time. And then you can go, for all I care.” She glares at him. “With the body. It’s not like- not like we have a use for it.”

Guardian coughs quietly.

_[and worst case scenario?]_

“That we find something slumbering beneath central town. Something malevolent.” Guardian coughs again, but Alt talks over them. “Or that the ceiling collapses and buries us alive, I mean. Either-or.”

That sounds pretty reasonable. He gives them a thumbs up.

“Then get up.” She rolls her eyes, kicking at him with her foot. It doesn’t hurt; she probably doesn’t want to damage the body any more than necessary. “We don’t have all day.”

* * *

He’s finally getting the hang of dashing at just the right moment to ram his sword into the nearest enemy. It doesn’t look nearly as graceful like when Guardian or Alt do it, but he’s getting there.

The first time he kills a Dirk all on his own, without their help, he spins the sword before burying its tip in the ground in triumph. Muscle memory and all that.

Then he kicks the Dirk’s face for good measure. Again, muscle memory and all that.

Guardian coughs somewhere behind him. They’re always in his vicinity whenever a fight breaks out.

Maybe they don’t trust him.

Not a single bullet even comes close to him this time around.

Maybe it’s something else.

* * *

The way to what the others had called the Immortal Cell is long and arduous. Not because there’s hordes of enemies but because there are a lot of stairs. He doesn’t really like stairs all that much. Especially when they’re half collapsed, like these ones.

Together, they climb over the stones blocking the way, dash across gaps in the staircase, all the while ignoring the trail of fuchsia blood that none of them want to acknowledge, until they draw closer to what seems to be the end of their journey.

At the end of the platform is a diamond-shaped object, covered in fuchsia blood or some other strange substance, he isn’t quite sure, hovering above the black abyss below.

It’s a strange sight, unlike anything he’s ever seen before. And he’s seen a few weird things along the way.

They come to a halt in front of it, just taking it all in for a few seconds. Dried blood splattered on the walls. Cracks in the tiles on the floor. Gaps in the railing. Something had happened here. It reeks of dust and metal.

A dull thud resounds in the open room, and when he looks back, Guardian is kneeling on the floor, looking up at what must be the Immortal Cell, clutching their own chest. “So that’s- that’s how it would end.”

Alt kicks a stray rock into the abyss. It doesn’t make a sound when it hits the ground. Maybe it doesn’t. “That settles it, then.” Her voice is grave as if the mere sight of the Cell had knocked the fight out of her. The darkness seems oppressive.

 _[settles what?]_ he asks, though neither of them look at him. He’s an outsider in this situation, someone who doesn’t understand the implications of what must have happened, of what the person they refer to as _Drifter_ must have done, good or bad.

It takes a while until Guardian finds their voice. “I was so uncertain at first,” they start, bracing one of their hands on the ground. Their bot chirps beside them, reassuring. His own bot chirps in response. “I didn’t know where he had gone – if he had just left after he’d finished what he’d set out to do, or if he had- had died fighting Judgement. When I saw you I was so sure he had come back.” There’s no acrimony in their voice, no resentment. They don’t hate him for wearing their friend’s face. “But to see that he triumphed over Judgement... it’s-” they break off, voice lost in the darkness.

“It feels good,” Alt finishes for them. She’s standing next to the wall, eyes fixated on the heart of this place as well. “That it wasn’t all for naught.”

Guardian nods at her words. “I had waited by that door for so long, hoping that he’d come back, at least to say goodbye. He never did. I guess it all makes sense now.”

They’re silent for a long time after that. Just the crackling of flames and soft breathing. Then Alt clears her throat. “Alright, that’s enough for now. Let’s go back.” She walks over to Guardian, resting her hand on their shoulder and offering them her hand. They take it without hesitation. They trust her. “You coming?” she calls out to the Beheaded.

 _[just a second,]_ he responds.

She shrugs, muttering a quiet “Suit yourself,” before she and Guardian leave in the direction of the staircase. It’s just him and the bot now, nestled on his shoulder. And the still heart.

Then, a small holographic window pops up in front of his eye, scribbly handwriting, as though the person leaving the message had been in a rush. Fuchsia text on a white, translucent background. Just eight words.

_[The Disease won’t get us. I’ll protect you.]_

A final message, one not meant for his eye but rather for someone else’s.

The writing disintegrates in front of his eye, the light from the holographic letters diminishing. A soft laugh; raspy, breathy, echoing in the tomb before it’s silent again apart from the crackling flames.

He pulls up the keyboard, but there are no words that seem appropriate. He closes it again.

Then he leaves.

He doesn’t look back.

* * *

There’s a small tailor shop in the town, one that he had somewhat neglected during his first visit. Mainly because he hadn’t needed it before. He still doesn’t, but it feels like the right thing to do, and isn’t that what counts?

He leaves it in a new ensemble, a pink scarf, black top and grey pants, their style more reminiscent of his old outfit. Blue skin peeks through in some places, but he’s used to uncommon skin colours. _An outfit for those with heart,_ the tailor had called it. He doesn’t know if that really appertains to him, then. He keeps the small bot. It’s cute and useful. Reminds him of the old times.

Then he deposits the red cloak, neatly folded, in front of the house Guardian had brought him to. It’ll be of more use to them than him, and it’s the least he can do.

He decides to leave without making his farewells. There’s a whole new world to explore, after all. They’ll be fine on their own.

The rustling of the leaves and the clinking of splintering crystals in the west sound like tinkling laughter, until even that ebbs away.

**Author's Note:**

> _the morning light was blocked by dusty, dirty blinds_   
>  _and i could hear your vodka kisses shouting_   
>  _fight! fight! fight! fight!_
> 
> ([Marigold](https://youtu.be/jW7R5tqUn-0))


End file.
